


danger

by lennonbum



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: First Person, Homophobic Language, Incest Mention, Suicide mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 17:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6248965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lennonbum/pseuds/lennonbum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There's nothing in my dreams, just some ugly memories."</p>
            </blockquote>





	danger

**Author's Note:**

> _!! please read first !!_ in all honesty, this started out as a boredom project that i never intended to post anywhere. i started liking it, though, and decided to post it here, unedited. this is the draft-y, incomplete-feeling story of curt, jam-packed with noncanon-ness and original ideas based off of lou reed & iggy pop's childhood/early adulthood. also, for the characters created to be in curt's band, i just used names from the stooges & the velvet underground and meshed them together. because i don't give a fuck. enjoy. 
> 
> (also yes, i hate first person as much as you do.)

my friends insisted i call myself “curt money” for irony’s sake. 

which, of course, was kind of a good idea until eddie money came along in ’77. by then it was too late to transition from curt wild, so curt wild i stayed

with the little money i could scrape up from odd jobs and selling my mom’s blood pressure pills, i managed to buy my own cigarettes, beer, and soap. we didn’t have a shower or a bath in the trailer, so the soap was for my routinely baths in the questionable lake in the woods behind the park. everyone else in my family just smelled bad

when i was twelve i lost my virginity to my older brother who continued to take advantage of my naivety even after i was sent away for treatment. what really pisses me off is the fact that mom & dad weren’t mad that my brother was fucking me, they were mad that i was a boy and he was a boy and that was wrong. where i’m from it’s okay to fuck your dogs and your cousins, even your siblings, just not your gay siblings

the treatment was 18 months of electrically induced seizures, however many hundred volts devouring my frontal lobes and frying the brain that was already caving in upon itself

so when i came back home after this “vacation” i was fourteen, angry, and absolutely crazy

drugs became my source of amusement, escape, respite, everything. of course i didn’t know about heroin until i started going to community college. i guess i had a hit or two and then freaked out and went into a trance, they sent me home because i was “unresponsive.” i was so confused when i woke up

that night i tried to hang myself, i couldn’t find a real weapon

it didn't work so i ran away. i ran as far as i could until i got to the “city” part of muskegon where i, with what money of my own i took with me, squatted with a friend of a friend with whom i eventually started writing songs with

ron cale was his name and he was a riot. we snorted and smoked and injected whatever we got our hands on and his guitar playing was what orgasms sounded like, the best orgasm, toe-curling, eye-rolling ecstasy that made me question my existence. his riffs penetrated me deep and rough and hard and i ground myself against his genius, filling myself with his filthy, perfect talent

we left michigan as soon as we could and headed for britain. the rock scene was there 

along the line ron and myself had a fight over money and it ended with him leaving in 1970, right after one of our first british shows. we were booed off, deemed as “wankers” and “fags” and i cried my eyes out because i loved him more than i really thought i did

we made the flight to a rural part of the british nation where baby wannabe woodstocks were known to pop up here and there minus the hendrix and who, plus throngs of skinny white guys with rosy cheeks trying to make it big 

we — me, ron, maureen, our bassist, and ron’s brother scott, our drummer — lived there in a tiny house for three years. we dubbed ourselves “curt wild & the rats.” we went with rats because of the way we looked, acted. we were almost “wylde rattz.” thank god we thought otherwise

we played around at the little festivals until we racked up a small reputation. finally at that one show i caught sight of brian slade and i didn’t know then what a mess he’d make of me 

brian was five feet eleven inches of intergalactic charm, with cheekbones high and sharp, a mouth made for kissing and a tongue for pleasuring, a body crafted by celestial beings with only one purpose: to spellbind 

which is why when he found me some while later and told me that he liked my sound i lost all consciousness. of course i was exhausted and absolutely inebriated but that last touch was enough to push me over the edge. unbeknownst to myself, at that very moment i gave myself to him, and i joined the rest of the world in the church of maxwell demon 

when i first saw brian he had long, orange hair like you’d imagine a wood witch having. he wore a long purple frock dress with heeled boots to match and fur coat on top of _the whole shebang._ we never spoke, though, just studied one another from afar. then, i’d never admit to wanting him, and he’d never admit to wanting me. now, though, all i want is brian. i want to have him back the way he used to be

if he— brian, not tommy— came home tomorrow, eyes glowing with passion and warmth, hair a soft blue, lips plush and pink, i’d hold him and never let him go. i’d tell him again and again how much i love him and he’d look me in the eye and tell me that he knew, that he knew everything. and i’d believe him

i met jack in berlin a little after brian left. he almost made me feel like a real person and all that was just so new, so lucid, so i devoured every minute of his company. we only made love once or twice but when we did it was momentary escape from the way brian’s disappearance made me feel

it was weird staying in touch with mandy after brian so explicitly and so unabashedly and so emotionlessly left her for me. i felt guilty and never stopped apologizing to her. she always waved her hand at me and smiled dreamily, and we’d embrace and have a drink and not speak until the next time we needed to cry on each other’s shoulders

arthur showed up like the first star in a night sky. i tasted him and touched him and i tried to give him what brian gave me. we made love beneath the stars, he called my name softly as i took him, and despite how close we were, how passionately we coalesced, the emptiness in my soul remained

i haven’t spoken to arthur in over a week. i’ve gotten calls asking for radio interviews or ideas for a hit new album with the rolling stones. i can’t help but remember that the only reason i’m famous is brian 

i’m still here, mostly. i don’t feel inclined to make any statements or participate in any documentaries about brian or myself or anything or anyone. the truth is that, at this point, i’m tired and i’m callous and i’m detached. _though i try to die, you put me back on the line, oh, damn it to hell, back on the line, hell..._


End file.
